


hold fast to your steady bleeding heart

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: (it's sad masturbation), Animal Death, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Henry V's arrow wound, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, animal euthanasia suggested, basically everyone's a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 06:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Edward, Duke of York is deep in unabating grief when Humphrey of Lancaster asks him for help to look after an old and sick dog: Mathe, who used to belong to Edward's murdered lover. Hanging over them is the fate of the Prince of Wales, away recovering from a horrific injury.





	hold fast to your steady bleeding heart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has alternatively been known as the Sad Edward fic and "OMG I killed Mathe" so in case you missed the tags or the implications of the summary, a dog dies (of old age), people are generally emotional wrecks, and the whole fic is very, very sad.
> 
> I tried my best with the character tags and apologise if any are silly or wrong.
> 
> Special thanks to angevin2 (shredsandpatches on tumblr) for her advice and encouragement. I probably wouldn't have written it at all if it wasn't for her.

Edward was glad to leave when Henry dismissed him. Henry’s titles may be three years old now, but their unfamiliarity still itched at Edward and still tasted like putrid ash in his mouth. And Edward’s one hope, that he would somehow hear that Hal was completely recovered from the injury that felled him at Shrewsbury, had come to nothing. Henry had gone white when Edward asked after the Prince of Wales’ health and then uttered a cold _fine_ that sounded as though Henry believed it was Edward who fired the arrow into his son’s face.

It was enough to warn Edward away from asking for details and he learnt nothing about Hal’s condition. It made him want to track down gossip, to hear what was being said about the king’s eldest son, which he knew was a bad idea. Gossip was wild and unchecked, rarely true, and he feared he would hear some horrible thing and believe it, or drive himself mad by believing it and disbelieving it in turn.

The door shut behind him and he stopped, hands fisting. He needed to know, but he could not ask Henry again. Hal’s brothers would know, he supposed, but he would not like to approach them for fear that Henry would doubtless hear about it and disapprove. It would be another reason for Henry to hate Edward, and he didn’t need another. Edward did not know who else he could ask.

He sighed and thought of the hunt, how he preferred it to court. He knew the rules and laws of the hunt; there was nowhere he could stumble and make a fool of himself or earn the ire of a king. He thought of the last hunt he had gone on with Richard, how free they been that day, and how, as the light began to fade, Richard raised himself in his stirrups, looked out at the forest, and said,

‘I wish we could go on. I wish we didn’t have to go back.’

Edward’s nails cut into his palms.

*

He laid on his bed, staring up at the crimson hangings, and tried not to think of Richard, or of Hal. He tried not to think of his father, dead, and how his own title, _Duke of York,_ felt too heavy on his shoulders. He tried not to think of Henry in that cold hall, silent and full of some unfathomable but terrible emotion. He tried not to remember Hal insisting that he had to see Richard’s corpse when it was bought to London and how Edward had been torn between relief that Hal had sought him out and spoken to him for the first time since the return from Ireland and horror at the idea that Edward would have to _see_ what he had a part in. To see Richard’s corpse and know that he had a hand in its making.

(He had gone in the end, but could not bear to look up Richard. Instead, he had watched Hal go bone-white and then bite his fist, not crying out or sobbing as Edward thought he would.)

In short, Edward tried not to think of anything.

He knew he must get up and go out. He was the Duke of York and his presence would be expected, his absence noted. He had already told Henry he was in good health, he could not now pretend to have taken ill and hide in his room.

There was a tap at the door, one of his attendants answered it. Voices murmured. Edward closed his eyes and wondered if he could feign weariness or a sudden illness. A pain in his head, his stomach cramping.

‘Your grace,’ says the attendant. ‘Lord Humphrey of Lancaster wishes to speak to you.’

His eyes slit open and he nodded, pulling himself out of bed. 

*

Like Henry’s other sons, Humphrey of Lancaster was tall and well-boned, but he was awkward in his size, as if he had gone to bed one night and woken up in the body of a boy five years older than him. Hal had once told Edward that Humphrey had been a sickly child, often babied. Edward wondered now if a rare spate of good health sat oddly with Humphrey.

‘Are you sick, your grace?’ Humphrey says, his hands twisting around themselves. ‘I would not have disturbed you if—’

Edward held up a hand. _Sick?_ Perhaps, but only from an old, poisoned wound that would never heal. There was little point in dwelling on it; Humphrey did not truly care. More importantly, moreover, Humphrey would know how Hal was and was not as tight-lipped as his father.

‘No. Just weary. I’m glad you came. How is your brother?’

Humphrey shuddered and looked down at his feet. ‘Oh. He wasn’t… wasn’t good when I was with him. But that’s a long time ago now. Father gets letters, but he doesn’t tell us what they say and…’ Humphrey shrugged. ‘Thomas stole them, one time – the arrow head’s out, and Bradmore is happy with how Harry’s healing, but he’s still... Father won’t let me go back and see him, and he had Thomas punished when he found Thomas had taken the letters.’

Edward had to pull everything Humphrey said apart to make sense of it. Hal hadn’t been good when Humphrey was with him – a long time ago, whenever that was. Thomas was a common enough name, but Edward supposed that the only Thomas who would steal the king’s private correspondence would be Hal’s reckless brother. Bradmore was likely a surgeon or a doctor tasked with Hal’s care, and he was bold enough to claim Hal was healing well. He also noted Humphrey’s worry and frustration, his relief at unloading some of it.

‘So things seem better?’

Humphrey shrugged again and said, ‘I pray so.’

‘As I do.’

And he had prayed, an endless cycle that asked for miracles with every breath because miracles were the only things he wanted. Hal was to recover, to return to court as the bright and happy boy he had been under Richard’s care. And Richard – Richard was to live again, and be safe and merry forever.

Humphrey nodded, opened his mouth, closed it and then burst out with, ‘I need your help.’

‘My help?’

‘Harry says you’re good with dogs,’ Humphrey said. ‘And – and my dog’s sick. Well, he’s not _my_ dog. But Harry said I had to look after him while he was away, and I can’t ask Father.’

Edward wanted to hug Humphrey. He exuded helplessness and desperation, a plea in his dark eyes. But Humphrey was Henry’s son and Edward barely knew him outside of the stories Hal had told him years ago.

‘Of course I’ll help,’ he said, instead. ‘We’ll go now.’

*

The dog was lying on a blue cushion, curled in a ball, and Edward had just about time to recognise the white coat, though duller and thinner than what he remembered, before the dog lifted his head and let out a whine that might have been happy if it had not become a whimper as the dog tried to get up. The tail wagged, but there was no real energy in it. Edward reached out blindly, one hand grasping the doorframe, the other Humphrey’s shoulder, and hoped he wouldn’t fall.

It was Mathe. Old and decrepit, but undoubtedly Mathe, and Mathe knew him still.

Richard’s dog. How many times had Edward watched Mathe run straight to Richard, leaping up to embrace him? Richard always laughed, somehow his royal dignity not impaired the least by an excited, loving dog. Or how many times had he seen Mathe running out in a straight line, the burst of speed that always struck Edward with awe? And the hunts, oh, the hunts they had gone on – those sunshine days, clear and perfect. Then there was the Christmas where Isabelle and Hal had played with Mathe, all three returning exhausted to Richard and Edward in the evening, and the nights where Hal had fallen asleep hugging Mathe by the fire while Edward and Richard spoke into the darkest hours. Edward had thought then that they were a family, though he didn’t dare speak the thought out loud for fear that Richard would laugh at him or that Hal would understand things too clearly.

All those days, all those nights. All squandered and lost.

‘You’re hurting me,’ Humphrey said.

Edward let go. He should have apologised but did not. He moved forward, dropped to his knees and took Mathe’s head between his hands, shuddering as his pink tongue lapped at his hands.

‘You know this dog’s name? You know who he belongs to?’

‘Mathe,’ Humphrey said at once. ‘And – I think Father. Harry would’ve taken Mathe with him like Bertilak and Pearl.’

Bertilak and Pearl. Edward did not want to think of the day Richard decided that Hal absolutely needed a puppy or two or even the whole litter because it would make Hal less likely to hate Richard when he learned about his father’s disinheritance. They had sat amongst the straw and been crawled over by puppies before Hal chosen the two girls that fell in asleep in his lap. He’d scorned Edward’s suggestions of thoroughly sensible, very good and highly appropriate names (Nosewise, Clench, Brag, Ringwood) before he’d settled on Bertilak and Pearl on Richard’s suggestion. Edward wondered if those pups, now long grown, were with Hal in Kenilworth, or if they’d been left in Wales after the battle.

‘He is King Richard’s dog.’

‘Oh,’ Humphrey said, and thankfully did not point out Edward’s folly and say, _but King Richard’s dead, isn’t he?_

Edward ran his hand down Mathe’s back. He had lost muscle tone and his movements were stiff. Edward knew that the bones were always one of the first things that broke down in a dog bred for hunting or for sprinting, as Mathe had been.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Humphrey said. ‘He used to sleep on my bed, but he can’t get up there anymore so I got him the cushion, but he doesn’t like walking anymore and now he cries whenever he gets up…’

Edward thought Humphrey might be crying himself, but he let it pass unnoticed.

‘You are a good boy, Humphrey,’ he said instead, not daring to look away from Mathe. ‘And you’ve taken good care of him. But Mathe is a very old dog.’

 ‘Like Grandmother? She gets aches and pains and complains a lot.’

Edward tried not to flinch at the thought of the Countess of Hereford or the way she had handled John Holland three years ago. He supposed Humphrey did not mean it badly; the countess was likely not nearly as fearsome to her grandchildren as she was to the rest of the world.

‘Like that, yes,’ Edward said. ‘But a little worse. Mathe is – well, he’s fourteen, he won’t live much longer.’

Humphrey made a small, wounded noise; he was definitely crying now. Edward could not face him. He opened Mathe’s mouth to examine his teeth. They were bad as well.

‘I can take him if you’d like.’

Humphrey’s voice was sharp, shocked. ‘ _No._ He’s my – I have to look after him. _Harry said_.’

Edward winced and was glad Humphrey could not see his face. He ran his head over Mathe’s head. He wanted to gather Mathe up and steal him away, but Humphrey was clearly distressed at the thought that Mathe should be taken away from him. He would tell Henry and that would be that. Edward bit his lip until the urge faded.

‘You’ve done well, with the cushion. But you can do a little better – give him no more bones to eat. Soft food will be easier for Mathe, and you have to be careful that he’s neither too warm or too cold. And brush him every day. I’ll help you while I’m here. But you’ll have to do it on your own when I leave. Do you understand?’

He turned then, and Humphrey’s face was wet and red, but he nodded all the same. He knelt down and patted Mathe as well, rubbing his ears the way Edward had seen Richard rub them before. Hal had probably taught him that. Edward swallowed and looked down at the cushion.

‘Are you going to tell Father?’

Edward had no intention of telling Henry; he would have liked never to speak to Henry again. There was no point in it, no point at all – Edward could not save himself from Henry’s suspicions and scorn, and he remembered well what could happen to a duke the king had taken against.

‘No,’ he said.

‘He’s no good when things are bad. He’d probably,’ and here Humphrey’s voice turned bitter, ‘say that we should _abandon_ him because he’s going to die.’

Edward’s stomach turned. Humphrey rubbed his face with his sleeve.

‘He said that about Harry. I had to beg and beg him to let me go with Harry, and then he made me leave.’

Again, Edward felt the urge to hug Humphrey and then the certainty that he should not. He wanted to tell Humphrey how awful it was that Henry should act so, but feared it would get back to Henry to Edward’s detriment. He rested his hand on Humphrey’s back.

‘I’m sure your father had his reasons.’

Humphrey’s shoulders slumped, he sniffed heartily and then helped ease Mathe down onto the cushion again. The dog licked his hand, then licked the tears from his face and pulled back at the taste of salt. Edward smiled weakly and thought there was too much sorrow in his life for him to be moved to care by the sight of a boy weeping over a dying dog and the dog still trying to comfort the boy.

*

He went each day to help Humphrey with Mathe. Not because of Humphrey, though he was just a boy and a seemingly rather well-meaning one as well, but because it was Mathe and because Mathe was Richard’s dog. With Hal in Kenilworth in an unknown condition, and Isabelle far away in France, Mathe was the only living connection Edward still had to Richard. How sad, he thought, that the last thing he could touch of their small, brief family was a dying dog.

But it gave him something to do. Each time he saw Mathe, his losses tore at him and the knowledge that he would, sooner or later, lose Mathe as well became an ache. Henry would dismiss him or Mathe would die. But it was also comforting, to have the chance to press his hand against Mathe’s warm body and have again a brief connection to his happy past. To take care of Richard’s dog and feel again that he was doing what Richard wanted him to do. Of course his task would end in failure; the tasks he set himself always did and he was under no delusions. He could not cure Mathe, only make him comfortable.

It became a distraction. He found himself reading through old texts, seeing if there was anything more he could do, and childish through Humphrey was, he was at least better company than Edward’s own thoughts.

*

Edward was summoned to see Henry again.

‘You are spending time with my son,’ Henry said. ‘Why?’

‘He finds my company agreeable,’ Edward said. ‘And my knowledge about hunting useful.’

Henry’s face flushed. ‘He’s too young to be hunting.’

Humphrey was thirteen; most noble boys had been taken out on hunts well before then. Henry had even taken Humphrey as a page to Shrewsbury, it seemed strange to cloister him now. But Edward was hardly an expert on children; he had none of his own and of the two he had foolishly thought were as good as his, he had lost one and had years of no contact with the other.

‘I believe he’s merely curious,’ he told Henry.

‘I hope you are not encouraging him to flout my restrictions. His health is frail.’

‘No, of course not,’ Edward said. ‘His concern is largely relating to dogs. One of the dogs he’s taken to is poorly.’

It was not a total betrayal of Humphrey’s trust. He had not told Henry how poorly the dog was, or what dog it was. Edward did not know how much Henry knew. Sometimes, Henry seemed to possess an unnatural ability to pierce through hearts and minds and scent out secrets. Edward did not want to be caught in a lie to such a man, much less have to name Mathe and reveal the connection to Richard.

‘A dog? I should name you the Master of the Hart-Hounds.’

Edward’s heart lurched. It was a good title, a sign of forgiveness. His father would urge him to accept it with all graciousness possible. It made Edward sick. He wanted nothing from Henry but his own survival, he did not wish to bow and scrape and take the crumbs of forgiveness Henry offered. But he could not refuse.

‘If it pleases you, your grace.’

Henry’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded and sent Edward away.

*

Edward paced the grounds. Autumn was setting in fast; the leaves had dried out and fallen, the trees had become bare. He was cold and he did not want to be cold, but neither did he want to go inside and sit by a fire. The wind caught at his hair, rushed under his collar and ringed his neck. There no change. Mathe was old, but his health was holding steady and he had seemed to have picked up from their attentions, little though they were. If there any word from Kenilworth, Henry had not shared it with Humphrey who could not have kept it secret.

Edward closed his eyes. He thought he should try and go hunting; the forests here for famous from the deer they hid within their depths. An old tale had it the forest had been populated by a herd of pure white deer, but Edward did not believe it.

Once, he supposed he might have. He might have laughed and told Richard between kisses, the two of them plotting to explore the forest until they discovered some long secret conclave where the legendary herd had hidden themselves away. He could not remember if he had come here with Richard; could not remember if they had made those plans and if they then enacted them.

He covered his face with his hands and went inside.

*

They were brushing Mathe between them, Edward working over the aged head while Humphrey ran long strokes along Mathe’s sleek body. Mathe’s eyes were slitted, he pressed his head into Edward’s hands and his tail wagged contentedly.

‘Do you know…’ Humphrey said.

‘Know what?’

‘How long he’s got?’

Edward shook his head. ‘Some dogs go quickly, some slowly.’

Humphrey looked away, wrapped his hand around Mathe’s paw. Eventually, he spoke again.

‘Father was asking me about my sick dog this morning. You told him, didn’t you?’

‘He always finds out,’ Edward said, which was not a total lie.

Humphrey nodded fervently. Together, they tipped Mathe on his side and began brushing his belly which made him wriggle. Edward found himself smiling without forcing it first.

‘You can’t tell Harry, though,’ Humphrey said. ‘Please. It’ll make him so sad.’

It would, but Edward could not see how it could be kept from Hal. Inevitably, he would notice. Hal was no longer at an age where he might overlook or forget a pet he loved but rarely saw.

‘Hal – Harry is going to find out about Mathe sooner or later.’

‘I know,’ Humphrey said. He put down his brush and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Edward feared he would start crying again. ‘Harry said I had to look after him. _Harry said_.’

‘You’ve not failed him,’ Edward said. ‘Mathe’s an old dog. No matter who was looking after him, he would’ve still gotten old. And see, he’s happy now.’

Humphrey nodded, his teeth digging into his lip.

*

At the end of a visit in which they groomed Mathe more than necessary for the simple joy of not being alone, Edward returned to his own room. The fire was burning well, but he could not shake off the chill that clung to him and found himself restless. He went to the chests containing his clothes, sorted through the one full of unseasonable clothes, light silks for the summer, and found what he wanted.

Inside a small rosewood box was the old badge he had clutched to his heart once long ago. The White Hart, enamelled and set with pearls amongst its antlers. He picked it up and pressed his lips to it.

He wanted to say something, a murmur of _oh Richard_ or a prayer to receive the forgiveness he wanted from his true sovereign. But fire crackled in the hearth, too loudly, and a wind whistled outside, and his mouth could not make a sound.

*

‘If a dog is failing,’ Henry asked him in the stables as they prepared for a hunt. ‘Do you not think it is better to put him out of his misery?’

Edward dropped his gloves. He bent down to pick them, ignoring the attendant who made to do it himself, and thought he was going to vomit. His stomach felt heavy with bile, his head suddenly seemed to split. This was not an innocent question. Henry _knew._

‘I don’t know, your grace,’ Edward said. It was the only answer he could give.

‘But come, you are the expert according to my son.’

‘It depends on the dog,’ Edward said, gritting his teeth. ‘And the owner.’

‘But mercy is mercy, is it not?’

Edward did not think so. There were many different types of mercy and one man’s mercy could be another’s cruelty. He supposed Henry thought all mercy was edged with cruelty, and it was not fair nor kind. Edward could not take the lesson Henry wanted him to learn. He could not kill Mathe, his last connection with Richard, much less call it a mercy. It was not. But he could hardly contradict the king to his face.

‘As your grace says.’

Henry’s lips twisted. ‘Will you tell Humphrey then? Sort this nonsense out?’

‘I would not,’ Edward said. His voice trembled and he hated the fact of it. ‘I do not think he would understand. He is sensitive and I think his spirits are low enough without being told he should have his dog killed.’

Henry looked as if he had suddenly discovered an urgent and pressing need for the latrine.

‘Quite right,’ Henry muttered. ‘Yes. Of course. You are right to delay there. If – if you will excuse me, I need – ah, yes.’

Henry was gone. Edward sighed and pressed his head against the wall, letting the cold stone lull him. He still felt sick, as if he along with Mathe had just escaped the executioner’s axe.

*

There was an old, stuffed bear tucked under Mathe’s paws that morning. It had been well-loved once, Edward thought as he bent to stroke Mathe’s head. The tail thudded against the cushion, Mathe licking his hand with some enthusiasm. Humphrey was sorting out the books on a table, setting them into piles.

‘What are you doing?’ Edward asked.

‘I’m finding books to send to Harry,’ Humphrey said. ‘He always sent me books when I was sick or upset. Father said I could.’

‘Oh,’ Edward said. ‘And Mathe? Mathe has been well?’

‘He got upset, a bit, because I had to go and – well. So I gave him the bear. But he ate well and has been happy enough when I came back.’

Edward nodded. ‘Does the bear have a name?’

Humphrey came and sat down on the other side of Mathe, stroking his side.

‘You’re not allowed to laugh. Thomas and John love to tease me about it.’

Edward grins. ‘I give you a most solemn oath: I will not laugh.’

‘Achilles,’ Humphrey said, cheeks colouring. ‘I had him since I was little. I don’t keep him for me anymore, but Mathe seems to like him.’

The last was delivered in a rush, as if he feared being called a baby. Edward had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing. It was sweet, really, almost certainly adorable, but he could tell Humphrey was sensitive over it and he had promised not to laugh.

‘I am sure Mathe loves Achilles,’ he said. ‘And I think it is very generous of you to give him your toy.’

The colour retreated from Humphrey’s cheeks slowly but he grinned back at Edward and went to fetch Mathe’s brush.

*

Edward missed Richard as a fact of his being. His grief had clung to him for three years without relenting for pity or mercy’s sake. The black fingers dug in at times and stole his breath, and he would think, _I cannot endure, I will not endure,_ but he somehow did. It was not just Richard’s company he missed, nor the brightness of his regard, the warmth of his affection or the reward of teasing a true smile from him.

It was the sensation of having a lover, of being able to hold Richard and be held by him. He missed the very feel of Richard’s body, the freedom to press his hands and lips to it and, for a brief time, possess and worship it. He missed their bodies for without Richard, his own felt it had lost more than half and been torn asunder by the loss of its partner.

Yet the desire was not quenched. It sickened him, sent him lurching from fevered memories of sweat-slick skin touching to the sheer horror and vertigo of his anguish. He could not forget his sorrows nor silence his lust. He was laid bare by the fact of it, could not help but touch himself. Half-sick with revulsion, he would either work himself into a fit of tears where he could not find relief or reach an end that left his body cold and sticky with his mess. He would lie on the bed until he was overcome by exhaustion or the urge to vomit and scrub his skin raw.

He thought, sometimes, of seeking out another lover. He would not, could not, love them as he had loved Richard, but another lover would give him other memories to draw on, would perhaps sate this desire better than he could on his own. But to find another lover was a risky business; he did not care if it hurt, but he feared to be discovered and named for what he was.

It was late. He could not sleep for the desire burning his blood. He stared up at the dark hangings above him, devoid of all colour in the darkness. Richard did not like night when it was complete darkness, a candle was always to be left burning. It made Richard’s skin glow, turned his hair in molten gold and transformed his human body into that of an angel’s, so beautiful it was terrible to see him and not touch him. Edward gritted his teeth, pressed his face into the pillow and was determined to resist, this time at least, the urges of his body.

It was not long before he gave in, and in less time still was he on his knees, body seething and bile burning across his tongue.

*

Mathe’s eyes were dull this morning and he only blinked when they brushed him. The cushion he was lying on was different; larger and made of red brocade, the stuffed bear was nowhere in sight. Humphrey was quiet.

‘Where did this cushion come from?’

‘Mathe soiled the old one last night, and…’

One shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. Edward closed his eyes tight. It was always a bad sign when an animal started fouling the area they slept in. Though he knew Mathe was reaching the end of his life, he wanted to cry out that it was too soon. He could not let go, he could not go back to what his life was before. Once Mathe was dead, he would have nothing to fill in his days with, no reason at all to pretend that he was still liked and wanted.

‘Your grace?’ Humphrey said.

Edward opened his eyes. ‘Call me Ned.’

 ‘Oh! Thank you, but – it’s not really proper, is it?’

It stung. ‘No, I suppose it’s not.’

He had said that once to Hal, and it had taken a second time before Hal started calling him Ned. But Hal stopped after Ireland, and Edward could understand why – he had been so angry and hurt.

‘I mean,’ Humphrey said. ‘It’s not that I – but I don’t think, and I’m sure Father wouldn’t – maybe when we’re both dukes?’

‘Maybe then,’ Edward said, though he doubted it.

Humphrey was quiet for a long moment, his shoulders hunched in. He reached out and patted Mathe’s head and was rewarded with a lick to his hand.

‘Mathe ate well this morning. He wanted more than what he got,’ he said. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s very good,’ he said, but he wanted to be cruel. ‘But soiling his bed is not.’

Humphrey’s face fell. He turned away and laid his head on the cushion beside Mathe’s. Edward felt the sting of his own cruelty and regretted it.

*

The queen arrived, and with her was another of Henry’s sons. Thomas, who had stolen his father’s letters about Hal. There was no mistaking Henry’s pride in his wife or his second-born. Edward only had to look up from his plate to see Henry doting on Queen Joanne or slapping Thomas on the back and beaming. Humphrey seemed quiet and small beside his elder brother, but it was only an illusion; he was always talking to someone and Thomas teased him into fits of frequent laughter.

Edward turned his eyes down to his plate, the slabs of spiced meat that had seemed succulent at first glance now seemed to be swimming in grease. He had not fooled himself enough to think that Humphrey thought him as a friend. No. He was nothing to Humphrey but a sympathetic ear and someone who helped him with a sick dog. But now Edward saw himself all clearly as an outsider, someone who had clutched at pleasantries and thought himself not entirely alone, only to find that his isolation all the starker.

Little though they were, Humphrey and Mathe were all Edward had outside of his grief and his sick worry over Hal. But what was he to them but a helpful stranger?

*

‘Did Thomas bring any news about Hal?’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘He hasn’t managed to steal any more letters yet, and he’s not allowed to go Kenilworth either.’ Humphrey paused, picking fluff out of the brush they used on Mathe. ‘ _You_ could go to Kenilworth.’

The idea was like a blow. Edward could, he supposed – Henry would never grant him permission but there were ways around that. Yet he did not want to go, not truly. He was desperate to know Hal would recover, but he did not want to see Hal in the grips of his injury, did not want to watch him and wonder whether he would live and live well. There was also the suspicion that Hal would not want to see him, that his presence would only serve to agitate Hal. Above all, he did not think he could leave Mathe for Hal.

Humphrey would not understand that. Mathe was a dog, not his brother, and both were parlous states, hanging between the borders between life and death. It was obvious Humphrey missed his brother desperately, had been frightened by whatever he had witnessed during the brief time he had been in Kenilworth with Hal.

Edward missed Hal as well, but he missed most the Hal that had flourished under his and Richard’s care. That Hal had been corrupted by his anger and grief and his father’s ambitions, was no longer Richard’s Hal but some twisted thing that Edward still loved, but also mourned.

‘I don’t think your father would let me.’

‘Don’t ask him,’ Humphrey said. ‘Just go. Richard Courtenay’s going to do it. And if you go, you can come back and tell me how Harry is.’

Edward wasn’t sure who Richard Courtenay was beyond one of Hal’s numerous friends and associates. He wished him luck. If Henry found out, he did not think this Courtenay would be rewarded.

‘I doubt I’d be allowed to talk to you again if your father found out.’

Humphrey stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Maybe. Father doesn’t find out _everything_ , though.’

Edward thought he could ask and pull from Humphrey the kind of story Hal would’ve told Edward and Richard once. Some conspiracy by the brothers to override their father’s restrictions, some great adventure amongst the ground of their childhood lodgings. It made him sick with longing and memory. Instead, he muttered something about getting on with looking after Mathe.

*

A letter had come for Edward from his sister Constance. He let it sit on the table with his other correspondence, unopened, for days before he broke the seal and read its contents. He felt for his sister, a traitor’s widow, as he felt for his brother with his long shadow of suspected illegitimacy, but he did not know how to act around them. They were filled with schemes, but he did not know where their plotting would lead them and did not care overly much. Listening to them made him tired. He knew that the Mortimer boy had been cheated of the throne by Henry, but he could not make himself care.

Richard was dead. He could not be brought back by people screaming that he was living in Scotland or France and that soon he would return and lead an uprising to rid them of the usurper. It did not matter that Mortimer had been cheated, his succession would not regild Richard’s crown, would not bring life back to his body or anoint him anew with the holy oil. It was too late. Richard had been deposed and murdered and they were all party to it.

He read the letter, it was as he expected. Constance was too careful to make clear her plans, but her discontent was plain as was the undercurrent that he, Edward, should do something. He did not know what to say in his reply. There was nothing in him that would stir at her righteous declaration of what should be done or what wrongs had been done. He understood them, and thought perhaps they were right. But he was weary, his strength and heart gone. He could not be their martyr, their bold champion. He had not been able to be so for Richard; how could he become those things for a boy he did not think he had met or his siblings he was not sure that he loved as they deserved to be loved?

The urge was in him to write to Constance, _here, you take my title, my position, my power. You must be Duke of York now, you know what to do better than I._ But he knew he could not give it up, could not trust Constance nor their brother with the power, such that it was.

He put the letter aside, thought he would reply on the next day or the day after that, and then laid down on the bed, nails cutting into his palms. On the edge of his mind was the sense that something would happen and force him from his apathy and his dark thoughts. He knew to expect Mathe’s death and possibly Hal’s so it could not be those dreadful things. Whatever did happen, it would bring him no joy, only more sorrow. But perhaps there was an end, some grateful moment when he could shut his eyes and perhaps dwell no more in grief and guilt.

He was waiting, but could not be sure for what.

*

When he came to Humphrey’s room the next day, he found that Humphrey was not alone. Thomas was lying stretched out on the bed, looking bored. Thomas raised his brows at Edward and said nothing to Edward’s admittedly awkward greeting. Humphrey, nose buried in a book, reached up and poked Thomas.

‘Brat,’ Thomas said, swatting at Humphrey’s hand.

‘I told you,’ Humphrey said. ‘You can stay if you’re not rude. _That_ was rude.’

‘Oh, my apologies.’ Thomas sat up on the bed, made a rough bow. ‘Welcome, your grace, to our humble abode. Dung-face here has been reading to the dog.’

‘ _Thomas_!’ Humphrey’s hand swept up again to slap Thomas’s leg. It was caught and pushed away.

 ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Edward said, before they could truly begin to fight. ‘What are you reading, Humphrey?’

‘ _Sir Gawain._ Harry sent it to me years ago. Did you know?’

Edward nodded. He wondered if Humphrey knew it had been Richard who suggested Hal commission a copy of the poem for his brother.

‘Yes. He missed you a lot then.’ He glanced at Thomas. ‘All of you. It was impossible to get him to stop talking about you.’

Thomas’s face spasmed, his jaw worked. He looked down at his hands, then swung himself off the bed. ‘I’m sure. Right. I better go, Humphrey – Father wants me to do something with him. But you send word if you need me.’

He looked at Edward, gave a crooked smile that was almost Hal’s, and then he was gone. Edward’s gaze dropped to the floor, then he went to Mathe’s side and patted him.

‘What was that about?’

‘He’s worried about Harry,’ Humphrey said. ‘And Harry always says he’s like Father and runs away at the first sign of weakness.’

That did sound like Henry. Edward lifted Mathe’s head in his hands, watched the dog’s eyes. Mathe’s tail thumped against the cushion. It was the same as yesterday’s and unsullied.

‘Did Harry really talk about us a lot?’

Edward nodded. ‘He took great pride in being your brother.’

Humphrey’s eyes were downcast. ‘Do you think he’ll be okay?’

Edward knew less than Humphrey about Hal’s health and what Humphrey had impressed most on him was his rabid fear. That Hal would live was possible, but nothing else. He would be disfigured now, and Hal, never a handsome boy, would have to live with that. And there could be other issues, Hal could be half-blind or crippled with pain for the rest of his life. In some ways, which Edward knew very well, Hal might even consider his death a mercy.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

He couldn’t lie to Humphrey’s face. He kept his eyes on Mathe and that was hard enough. But even so, he was apparently unconvincing. Humphrey stiffened beside him.

‘Everyone lies to me,’ he said. ‘Father – Father doesn’t say what he thinks, but he’s a wreck. Thomas pretends he doesn’t care, _he does_. John’s – well, John just pretends to be sensible, says _if you’re that worried, pray_ like he’s not frantic either. And Joanne – the queen, that is – she’s just encouraging. Says things will turn out for the best, and that’s – that’s not true.’

‘No, not it’s not.’ Edward’s lips pressed tight. Nothing ever turned out for the best.

 ‘If things _turned out for the best,_ ’ Humphrey said. ‘Harry would be here, _right now,_ and he’d be fine. He’d have been fine all this time.’

And Richard would not be dead, either.

‘I’m sorry I lied,’ Edward said, at last. ‘I don’t know what will happen. _You_ know more about Hal’s condition than I do. I should be asking you if Hal will be fine.’

Humphrey frowned. ‘That’s – but no one tells me _anything_.’

Edward rested a hand on Humphrey’s shoulder. The muscle was tight beneath his palm, the bones hunched in. Edward saw how miserable the boy truly was, how frustrated. He wished, for the first time, that he could do more for him.

*

It rained; the grounds were vivid with colour and wet, and worse impossible to walk in. Edward considered it, debated the wisdom of trying it anyway and was promptly reminded of a time when it had rained so heavily and so loudly he had been convinced it was hailing – only to be proved wrong when Hal, bright as a fire spark, raced out into it and came back with wet face and hair, no ball of ice caught in his fingers. How Richard had fussed before he nearly smothered Hal with a towel in his efforts to get him dry.

Edward dismissed the thought of walking and went to the chapel to pray instead. He liked it for its quiet, for its inability to stir his memories. In chapel, Richard sunk into silence and stillness and Hal always solemn. He knelt and blessed himself, stared at the crucifix. For a long moment, he could not think, could not begin the prayers he had always made, and would always make.

But then they came, the memory trickling in. The first prayers were always for Richard and his immortal soul, the second were that Richard would forgive him his treachery – to him that ranked above God’s forgiveness. Then he prayed for Hal and his recovery, that he was not in such dreadful pain. Other prayers followed, less well-ordered. His parents’ souls, his friends that were dead and his friends that lived, his siblings, Isabelle and her happiness, and for his own soul. He was too sore to try and intercede for his king, for _Henry,_ though he knew he ought to. However, he now added an entreaty for Humphrey and Hal’s other siblings.

A throat cleared behind him. Edward jumped and turned, half expecting the chaplain or an acolyte asking him to leave so they could prepare for the next service. It was Henry. He turned back, concluded his prayers quickly and got up to bow.

‘Leave,’ Henry said. He looked pale. ‘I wish to pray alone.’

‘As you command,’ Edward said.

He genuflected to the altar and was nearly at the door when Henry spoke again, his voice loud enough to echo and break the silence.

‘How is Humphrey?’

Edward went back to Henry; he did not think it proper to have a conversation with each person at the other end of a chapel and it gave him time to compose his answer.

‘I do not claim to know him well, or have his trust,’ Edward said. ‘But he seems to me to be rather miserable.’

‘It’s his brother,’ Henry said, clearly unwillingly. ‘Harry.’

‘Is there nothing encouraging you can tell him?’ Edward bit the inside of his cheek, could not help but be amazed at his boldness.

Henry’s head was shaking before Edward had finished speaking. ‘No. Nothing.’ Henry paused, looked up to the altar and then to the psalter in his hand. ‘He would get his hopes up, you see, and when it then goes badly…’

‘But—’

Henry’s eyes landed on his and they were as cold and sharp as a sword, but not as painful as Henry’s words. ‘What would you know, York, of children? You have none. I have six. What do you think to teach me about their raising?’

 Edward’s courage failed him. He meant to challenge Henry, to point out that the lack of knowledge was only furthering Humphrey’s anxiety. He apologised, bowed again and left. Outside the door, he waited, breathed in. Rain was streaking down the windows, the sound tumultuous. Underneath he thought he heard muffled weeping but could not be sure.

*

Edward was dreaming. A greyhound – sleek and golden – raced on before him, paws making no tracks. He meant to call it back, to kennel it for the night. But he could not cry out and it would not stop. Then he was in a tower, going up and up, and he thought there was a fire outside, and he could not stop, not even when the stairs crumbled beneath his feet. When he came to the top, he was desperate: he had to go keep going up, but there were no more stairs and no ladder, only a pair of empty shackles on the ground and a cold hearth.

Someone was shaking him. His eyes snapped open.

‘Your grace,’ said one of his attendants. ‘Lord Humphrey of Lancaster requires you. He said it was urgent.’

*

Humphrey’s room was dark. The fire had been built up well, but most lights had been extinguished. Humphrey’s bed covers were pulled back and rumpled, and the boy himself was in his sleep clothes by Mathe’s side, his face very pale and clearly terrified. The dog was on another new cushion, wrapped in an old blanket.

‘Your grace,’ Humphrey said, looking up at him and his lips were trembling. ‘I think he’s – I think it’s tonight. He can’t move.’

Edward shook his head. He did not want it to be tonight, he did not want it to be so soon, he did not want it to be ever.

‘I’m sorry,’ Humphrey said, taking a breath and apparently taking in Edward’s own night attire, though Edward had at least been sensible enough to pull on a robe and a mantle over the top of his. ‘I didn’t mean to – you don’t have to stay.’

‘It’s alright,’ Edward said. ‘I want to be here.’

Humphrey nodded. He turned back to Mathe, touched his hand to the dog’s head. Edward knelt down beside him and knew Humphrey was right. Mathe was awake, but nothing moved but the bones above his eyes. If Mathe survived this night, he would not survive another.

‘Have you slept at all?’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘I was about to, when…’

‘Why don’t you try to sleep now? I’ll watch for now and then wake you for a turn later…’

Edward was not sure he would. It would be a long night, and Humphrey was young. Besides, Edward wanted to be selfish, to have the last hours with Mathe, with Richard’s dog, on his own.

‘I can’t. Harry said – and Harry’s not here. I have to stay with him.’

‘Harry would understand,’ Edward said, and he was sure Hal would.

‘I don’t care if he’d understand. I have to stay. I can’t leave him.’

Humphrey looked like he would cry or scream if Edward kept pushing. He was also clearly shivering, and Edward wondered why the boy’s attendants had been remiss enough not to make him put on a robe.

‘Alright,’ Edward said. ‘But put something warm on. You’re shivering.’

*

Humphrey did not put on a cloak or a robe, but dragged the blankets off his bed and sat huddled beneath them. It was, Edward thought, a better idea that putting on another layer of clothes. It would be a long night and he did wonder if, in spite of Humphrey’s clear and best intentions, the boy would fall asleep. Edward got up and collected the cushions and pillows from Humphrey’s bed.

‘We may as well make ourselves comfortable,’ he said to Humphrey’s puzzled look.

Edward sent a servant for hot possets, arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the floor beside Mathe. Mathe’s eyes opened, then closed wearily. It was raining outside still; thick, heavy rain. Edward was not ready for this. He was not. He had known this was coming but he could not believe it was happening. He could not. His hands were shaking, he clutched at his knees to try and stop them but they would not be still.

‘I could read to him,’ Humphrey said. He was scrubbing at his eyes with his hands. ‘Would that help?’

Edward doubted it would matter to Mathe, but it would give them something to fill in the time with, and perhaps Mathe would find a familiar voice comforting. Though another voice – _Richard’s_ – might be more familiar, more comforting. Edward wondered if it was the best that Richard was not here to witness Mathe’s death. He had adored Mathe, would be distraught at this moment. Perhaps it was something that Richard had been spared this.

‘Nothing sad,’ Edward said. ‘Nor overly cheerful.’

Humphrey came back with a book of agricultural treatises. He shrugged at Edward’s enquiring look and began to read. It was fairly dull, which was about all Edward could stomach. He did not have to listen to the actual words, only the sound of Humphrey’s voice against the rain and the crackle of the fire, and instead watched Mathe.

*

Edward was not sure how long Humphrey had been reading when he stopped and put the book the side. Mathe was unchanged; his side rose and fell with each breath and his eyes were shut. Perhaps he was sleeping. Edward sipped at his posset, it was cold and tasted foul. Humphrey rubbed a hand over his face and drank the rest of his posset, grimacing.

‘Why did you stop?’

Humphrey shrugged. ‘Couldn’t keep going.’

Edward understood. He looked to the windows which were dark, showing nothing but the occasional streak of rain illuminated by the faint glow of the burning fire. He did not know what time it was, did not want to ask a servant to find out.

‘Your grace,’ Humphrey said. ‘Was King Richard a bad man?’

Edward’s heart stopped. His hands were shaking again. He clutched at his knees harder – why would Humphrey ask that? What could Edward say?

‘I mean,’ Humphrey said. ‘Father didn’t like him much, but Harry did, and I never really met him.’

Edward couldn’t speak.

‘Father knighted us in front of him, which I still don’t understand, and he wasn’t mean or anything, but he was just… quiet. He didn’t look like a tyrant, I thought he was pretty. But John says that tyrants don’t look like anything in particular, and it’s hard to be a tyrant when you’ve got no power and—’

Humphrey cut himself off and was staring at Edward, his face full of horror. Edward did not understand.

‘I’m sorry,’ Humphrey said. ‘I didn’t mean to – John says I always talk too much. I’ll be quiet.’

‘No,’ Edward said, and his voice was thick. ‘No. It’s fine.’

‘But you’re crying.’

Edward raised his hand to his face. His fingers came away wet and they tasted of salt when he pressed them to his lips. He scrubbed at his eyes with his hands. It was not right that he was crying, not in front of a boy he barely knew and who he was meant to be helping. He cleared his throat, tried to drink more of the posset.

‘He was a good man.’ It was all he could manage to say. ‘Does… does Hal ever talk about it? When he was with Richard?’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘Father doesn’t like it, so we don’t… don’t talk about it. But we can tell he was happy then.’ He bit his lip. ‘He went… funny, when we heard about – it.’ Richard’s death. ‘I pretended to have bad dreams for days and days so he’d let me sleep with him… that way he wasn’t alone.’

‘You couldn’t just tell him the truth?’

‘He would’ve said he was fine. That we shouldn’t worry about him.’ He smiled wearily. ‘He’d hate how much we’re worrying about him _now._ Say we’ve got better things to do.’

Edward was glad Hal had brothers who cared for him, who had looked after him despite his aversion to being taken care of. Edward’s siblings did worry about him, but not enough to force their care on him. Was the fault in him, he wondered, that he could not hold onto anyone enough that they would love him above all else? Richard had, or at least _almost_ had, but he had betrayed Richard, and in doing so, lost everything.

*

If Edward drifted off to sleep, he was unaware of it. He was aware of changing positions, of lying down on the floor with his head on a pillow at one stage, and then turning over onto his side to watch Mathe. Humphrey had moved, lying behind Mathe to hug him. In the darkness, his face hidden by Mathe’s neck, all Edward could see was Hal. They had the same dark hair, and Humphrey was lying with Mathe as Hal had and was the same age as Hal had been in that last happy year with Richard. Edward could feel the ghost of Richard’s hand on his wrist, could almost hear the teasing happiness that gilded Richard’s words.

He wanted desperately to turn to Richard warn him. Don’t take the Lancastrian inheritance, don’t go to Ireland, don’t make Henry into an enemy, don’t let everything be ruined, and above all, _don’t die._ But Richard had died and Mathe soon would as well.

He did not know how to live without Richard and yet he was. He did not know how he could live when Mathe was dead or if Hal died, and yet he would. He was too cowardly for anything else.

Mathe moved, his front legs flexing. Edward sat up. Was this death, or life? His vision blurred. Humphrey made a small sound where he lay. Mathe did not move again.

*

Humphrey was crying, his breath sobbing. Edward blinked; he must have slept. The boy was frantic, batting at Edward with his hands, the blankets gone from around his shoulders.

‘He’s cold,’ he said, ‘he’s cold, he’s cold, he’s cold.’

Edward sat up, caught Humphrey with one arm. The fire was down low, Humphrey’s face was wet and dark with shadow. Edward reached out, touched Mathe. The dog was completely still, completely cold. Edward’s skin crawled.

Mathe was gone. Mathe, who had licked Humphrey’s tears from his face when he cried, who had known Edward and still loved him, who Hal had played with and slept curled up to, who laid patiently while Isabelle tucked a crown she had woven from flowers over his head. Mathe, who had been Richard’s, and Richard’s only. Mathe, one part of the small thing Edward had thought was like a family, was gone. Three parts of that family were now out of Edward’s reach. Another part might soon follow and that would leave Edward on his own.

Humphrey was shuddering, his teeth chattering. Edward turned and held him properly, pressed the boy’s face against his shoulder. Humphrey’s arms wound around him, clung to him.

*

The morning came. Sometime during the night the rain must have stopped, for a weak sun was shining. Edward had the servants take the dog’s body away after Humphrey carefully tucked the stuffed bear between Mathe’s legs and wrapped him in a blanket. The dog would be buried in the morning and Edward would go to witness it but he doubted Humphrey would; Henry would not allow it. Humphrey was on the bed and was awake, Edward could hear him sniffling now and again behind the bed hangings. There was part of him that wanted to get up and hug Humphrey again, but he did not. The moment where he felt it appropriate had passed, now he was back to realising that he was not Humphrey’s friend or a companion, but someone who had been sought out because according to Humphrey’s absent brother, he knew about dogs.

There was a knock at the door. Humphrey snuffled in his bed and sat up, dragging the hangings back. His face was pale and blotchy, tear-stained. Edward, seated by the window, stood up. He knew he should go. Humphrey had no more need of him.

It was Henry. He was not dressed in courtly splendour, looking like he had been quickly dressed whatever clothes on that were to hand. He did not seem to see Edward, crossing immediately to Humphrey and taking his youngest son into his arms.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you.’

Edward left.

*

The grave was small, but dug deep. Edward stared at it, the moist, dark soil that made it, and then turned his head to where the shovel that had made the hole rested. He should have been the one who stripped down to his undergarments and dug it, let his hands blister on the handle of the shovel and poured his sweat and tears as some kind of pagan libation for Mathe. But it was too late for such thoughts. The hole had been dug.

He raised his head, gestured to the groundsman who lifted the blanket-wrapped bundle that had been Mathe and gently lowered him into the hole. Edward closed his eyes tight to prevent his tears from becoming real. He gestured again, and the groundsman began to fill the grave in.

It became a dark, raised scar against the green grass, and rain was falling again, just a fine mist. The groundsman stood, waiting for dismissal and Edward gave it. He could not go himself, and instead clutched his arms tight around his body and thought again he might say something, _oh Richard, oh Richard,_ but his mouth could not move.

*

He did not go to see Humphrey. It was clear to him that he had served his purpose, had helped the boy nurse Mathe to his death and now there was no reason Humphrey would want to see him. He had made no effort to see if Humphrey wanted to be there when Mathe was buried; Henry would not have approved and it would have only upset the boy, but perhaps he should have. That, too, was another reason to avoid Humphrey.

The days passed. Edward began to think of leaving. There was no reason for Henry to hold him, and he itched to be away, to not see the dark mound of Mathe’s grave sink down and be grown over by grass.

*

There was a hunt and he went, because it was a distraction, because he liked hunting. He did not bring down anything, but applauded politely when Henry’s son Thomas finished off the boar, though he thought Thomas had gone too close and only been saved from injury or death by sheer luck.

On the way back, the dogs were tired and lagging so Edward hung back with them. He did not want to go back inside, did not want to want to be confined again. He wanted to lie down beneath the roots of a gnarled old oak and sleep. But he knew it would not be permitted.

He returned late, saw the dogs to their kennels and handed his own horse to its groom. On his way out of the stable, a hand caught him and pushed him back against the wall with surprising force. It was Thomas, his dark eyes angry.

‘My brother,’ he said, ‘is not less than a dog.’

Edward blinked. What madness was this? He did not think he had ever heard anyone claim such thing or behave like it was true.

‘Of course not.’

‘Just so you know.’

‘I do know. What – what’s this all about?’

‘You know what it’s about.’

Edward really didn’t. The mood of this fifteen-year-old was beyond him, though, based on all Hal had once told him about his brothers, he could easily believe that Thomas was perhaps more difficult than most fifteen-year-old boys. Thomas leaned in close again, brows dark and heavy.

‘And you would do well to remember that.’

‘I will,’ Edward said, hoping it would satisfy Thomas and he would be left alone.

It did.

‘Good,’ Thomas said. He straightened up, face losing some of its frightening severity to smile. He patted Edward on the chest and left him by the stables, jogging to catch up with his father’s retinue. Edward heard, in the kennels, one of the dogs was whining. He wanted to go to it, to soothe its need, but could not. He thought more and more of leaving.

*

Henry gave him permission to leave in a cold, dark room. It was not, Edward thought, an insult. The room was merely one Henry had set aside for his own use – there were books on the table next to a half-finished page of musical notation and another with a gun sketched out on it – and the deprivation of light and warmth were more an indication of Henry’s need to play at penance than they were about his desire to treat with Edward like a cat plays with its prey. Henry’s countenance seemed greatly aged, his eyes embers sunk in deep hollows, as if he looked out from twin graves already.

‘York,’ he said. ‘You will come for the Christmas celebrations, won’t you?’

Edward’s hands clenched into fists, and then relaxed. It was not an order or a command, and he had already assumed he would go. He could refuse, now, yet he heard his father’s voice whispering in the back of his head about the honour, _the honour,_ and knew he should not refuse. Nor did he particularly want to. It would be a chance to see if Humphrey was coping and hear if there was more news of Hal.

‘Of course, your grace.’

‘Good,’ Henry said crisply. ‘In that case, I have a task for you.’

Edward’s fists tightened again. _A task._ What dreadful thing was Henry going to ask of him?

Henry smiled. ‘Don’t look like that. You’ll like it.’

*

It was early, the sun just rising and the grass hard with frost beneath Edward’s boots. He watched the groom checking his mount’s bridle and tack, turned his head to the forest. In all the times he had ventured in there on some hunting trip, he had not seen a single white deer. Perhaps it was mere legend after all, or they had grown extinct, hunted by overeager men who took too much. Edward did not care, he was glad in a way not to have seen any. Perhaps he had confused it for some other forest.

He checked the fastening of his mantle, looked back at the castle grounds, the dark smear where Mathe was buried and felt his heart wrench. He could not stay, he did not want to.

‘Your grace! Your grace!’

Humphrey, running pell-mell towards him, clutching a piece of parchment in his hand. Edward turned, reaching out to steady the boy as he skidded to a stop. He was panting now but thrust the parchment towards Edward’s face.

‘What is it?’

‘You didn’t come to dinner last night,’ Humphrey said. ‘Or else I would’ve shown you then.’

‘I wanted an early – what is it?’

‘It’s _Harry_.’ Humphrey thrust the parchment towards Edward again. ‘It’s – oh, just read it.’

Edward took the parchment – the letter – and unfolded it. He didn’t know the hand but that was hardly surprising. It was not from Hal, but the friend Humphrey had mentioned, Courtenay. He was with Hal now, or had been when he wrote, and Hal was – well enough, all things considered. It was not good news, really, and Edward was sure Courtenay was holding things back, not wanting to frighten Humphrey, but it was news and none of it was particularly worrying.

‘He says Harry will be with us for Christmas if all goes well,’ Humphrey said, biting his lip and beaming up at Edward. ‘He says Harry misses us very much.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Edward said, who had already read those things. ‘We’ll have much to look forward to this Christmas, I think.’

Humphrey took back the letter and glancing over it before holding it against his heart. ‘Yes. If all goes well.’

‘We can only pray it does.’

Humphrey nodded, then reached out and hugged Edward tightly. ‘Thank you.’

Startled, Edward was slow to return the boy’s embrace but when he did, it was a tight, fierce embrace. He was sorry for himself and for Humphrey, but now he thought there was something that might be, if all came to pass as he hoped, be good news.

*

His wife, Philippa, embraced and kissed him on his arrival, her hand reaching to clasp his. He felt shame at how he suffered her affection. It was not her fault that she was not Richard, that he wished only for Richard and his affection. She understood his moods, did not press him for things he did not want to give, and above all, she let him be and did not try and tell him what he should and should not do.

He followed her in, allowed her to direct servants to take his mantle and boots from him, and sat in a chair by the fire.

‘You’re glummer than usual. What happened?’

He did not think she truly wanted to know, or would understand if she did.

‘The king has invited us to his Christmas celebrations.’

‘Oh,’ Philippa said. ‘I thought he already had.’

Edward shrugged. ‘He’s keen to make sure that we attend.’

‘And that is bad?’

Edward shrugged again. He did not know. His father would say it was not, that it showed Henry was reaching out to him, wanting to renew their old friendships and loyalties, such as they were. But Edward’s old self would say it was bad and he did not want to sit and be merry with Henry. But he had his task and the promise of Hal’s possible appearance and he did not know anymore.

‘Edward,’ she said. She leaned in and laid her hand on his arm. ‘What happened?’

‘There was a dog who was poorly.’

‘Oh, Edward,’ she said. ‘You and your dogs.’

‘It died.’

‘Dogs do that.’

‘Everyone does that,’ Edward said. ‘It does not make it any less sad.’

‘No,’ Philippa said after a silence. ‘It does not.’

Edward swallowed. ‘It was Mathe. Richard’s dog.’

Philippa’s hand squeezed his arm, then she reached out and hugged him to her chest. It did not help, did not make his grief any less, and he knew she did not, could not, understand why it made him so sad, but her comfort was something he could not begrudge.

 

***

 

Christmas would be in Abington that year and from what Edward had gathered, Henry had planned a quiet celebration. There would still be feasts and tournaments, and the queen would of course be the new glittering jewel at his side, but in respect to the injury of the Prince of Wales, the revelries would be smaller, less glittering displays of majesty. It would also, Edward thought, be less of a strain on the king’s finances.

Edward both did and did not want to go. The possibility of seeing Hal again was a lure, but he still feared what it would mean. If Hal had changed again, if his character had become even more corrupted. If he did not want to see Edward, would coldly dismiss him as a remanent from the life Hal could no longer have. And would what it mean if Hal did not come, if Edward was forced again to ferret out the knowledge Henry did not want anyone to have?

And Edward no longer loved Christmas. Before, he had taken joy in the celebrations stretching out for days and he could make no pretence that it had not been soured. Those twelve days now stood as a sharp reminder of the things he had lost, and every recollection of the last Christmas Richard had presided over sent through him a desperate longing. He should have known, should have found some way to clutch at that happiness for longer. And each Feast of the Epiphany he celebrated meant celebrating another year that would not be added to the tally of Richard’s life.

Yet he had to go to Abington that year. He had already given his word to both Henry and Humphrey. If he withdrew his word, Henry would resent him and Humphrey might be upset. Additionally, he would be able to complete the task Henry had set him and free himself that little more from Henry’s grasp.

‘Don’t dwell so,’ Philippa told him before they parted for the night. They would leave in the morning. ‘You’ll be miserable wherever you spend Christmas. At least Henry’s celebrations will be a distraction.’

He supposed she was wise there. ‘And there’s a chance that—’

‘Yes. I know. The prince could be there.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Edward.’

* 

Edward knelt down beside the wolfhound, watching her puppies tumble over the straw in play. They were small beside her, almost tiny, but that wouldn’t last for long. Their legs already seemed too long for their bodies, their grey fur rough and their faces kind. For once Edward was not looking for a dog who would be a good hunter, but one that would be a good companion. He had watched this litter before, had checked them all over for form and temperament and had his suspicions, but this was the moment where he had to be sure.

He smiled. The one he had chosen was placid, long-suffering under the attentions of her overenthusiastic siblings, and her face was a little darker than the others. He picked the pup up, tucked her under his arm and took her out, placing her in the basket Philippa held out for him.

‘Are you sure?’ she said, smiling to show him she was only teasing. ‘You don’t have another in mind? And a wolfhound’s an awfully big dog for a child.’

He patted the pup to settle her and fitted the lid over the top of the basket. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘It was only a tease.’

*

In Abington, he tried not to think of the times he had come there before with Richard. They had spent hours exploring the oldest parts of the town and having timeworn stories told to them. But what Edward remembered best was the perfect line of Richard’s throat as he had thrown back his head to peer up at some design on the ceiling and the late sun that shone gold in Richard’s hair. He did not want to remember, yet it was an impossible task to forget, and he hated the pity that crossed Philippa’s face when she thought he didn’t see her.

Hal was there, but also was not there. He attended some of the masses and prayer services, but heard more privately. The first day of jousts, he sat beside his father in the royal pavilion, but left soon after the start and did not come to any more. He was at the feasts, but he never stayed until the end, often leaving early.

Not able to see him up close, Edward had to be contented with what knowledge he could gain from a distance. There was no scar visible on Hal’s cheek, for he still wore a bandage over where the wound must have been. He seemed pale save the darkness beneath his eyes and his gowns hung loosely on his frame. Edward remembered, only a little unwillingly, the times he had fussed over and teased Hal for looking like a half-starved child when he ate like a greedy dog, and felt pain not unlike a knife being thrust into his belly.

Always, Hal was surrounded by his family, as if they set themselves the task of guarding him. Humphrey was his shadow and a particularly clingy one at that, and John wasn’t far behind him. Thomas glared at anyone who came close, while Hal’s sisters presented him with offerings – flowers, food, and at least one enormous book – and Henry seemed as though he would weep each time he saw Hal.

Edward told himself that he was glad for Hal, and for the others. It was well-evident that Hal was loved and protected and that they were all grateful to be all together again. But it was as though they were a house shuttered against a foul storm. There was no way in or out, and Edward, alone in the tempest, could only watch and think longingly of what it would be like to be part of a close-knit family again. Hal may yet forgive him, but he would never again love Edward as he had when Richard lived and loved them both.

*

It was a day for jousts and then a hunt in the afternoon. Edward would watch the first and participate in the latter, but it was also a day when all he wished to do was hide, and so he dragged his feet. Philippa, frustrated at his attempts to delay, had gone on before him with the promise of making his excuses so long as he _did_ eventually come.

The hall seemed empty when he walked through it, but a voice called out his name and he halted, wincing. He recognised the voice, and feared another bewildering confrontation.

‘You keep staring at my brother,’ Thomas of Lancaster said. ‘You will stop.’

At least this time, Edward thought, Thomas had made his offence clear. There was no need to scramble for his meaning, to try and make sense of his words. Even so, he did not like how Thomas was looking at him, as if he did not know whether Edward was pitiful or sickening.

‘Why? What harm does looking do?’

Thomas took a step forward, doing his best to seem menacing. Despite his youth, he had Henry’s sturdy, powerful frame and Edward could vaguely recall Hal complaining that Thomas always beat him when they sparred. Looking at Thomas’s face, the anger making his features rigid, he could understand why.

‘He’s been through _enough_ ,’ Thomas said. ‘Without some – some sad, pathetic man gawking at him.’

It hurt. Edward backed away, looked to the ground, his head spinning. It _hurt._ Thomas had named him exactly as he was. A miserable wretch who stared hungrily at the things he could never have. He had never tried to fool himself, but to be named so, to be _seen_ so – it pushed and pulled him, sunk to his belly and dragged him down.

‘You’re right,’ he made himself say. A laugh tore out of his throat. ‘About everything. I’ll stop.’

Thomas’s face flickered with surprise, but then someone – _Hal_ – called his name with a weary voice and his head jerked away from Edward’s, with an expression that seemed to stink of guilt. Edward could not turn his head, could not bear to see Hal when he knew he should not.

‘You’re supposed to be jousting today, aren’t you?’ Hal said. ‘You best hurry, then.’

‘And you’re supposed to be resting,’ Thomas said.

‘I’m on my way,’ Hal said, and if he still sounded tired, there was a smile to be heard. ‘You are not.’

‘I’ll walk you up—’

‘I don’t need you to. Go.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Thomas,’ Hal said. ‘I _will_ hit you.’

‘You couldn’t hit a cat – alright, I’m going. But you go straight to bed. I’ll send a servant to check on you.’

‘I’m touched by your trust in me,’ Hal said and then Thomas was gone.

Edward breathed in sharply. He should go. Hal was tired and needed to go to bed. Hal did not need him, could not possibly want a wretch like Edward fawning over him. Thomas had made that clear.

‘Your grace,’ Hal said, and Edward’s heart thudded traitorously with joy. ‘York, whatever Thomas said, you should know he’s an idiot.’

Edward, at last, managed to pull his head up. Hal looked worse up close than what he feared. The shape of his skull was visible beneath his skin, his hair lank and there were deep bruises in the hollows of his eyes. He smiled at Edward and even accounting for his weariness, the expression was all wrong.

‘No,’ Edward said. ‘I think he saw me too clearly.’

‘If he did, it was pure coincidence,’ Hal said. ‘He’s not very good at – well, _people_.’

Edward nodded. ‘And you – you are in sound health?’

‘I can’t complain,’ Hal said.

‘But, surely, you have good cause—’

Hal smiled again, and it was too sharp. ‘I really can’t. Father has a crisis, Blanche and Humphrey cry, Thomas tries to threaten my doctors and hit things, John looks like he feels worse than I do, and Philippa badgers me with helpful suggestions that aren’t actually helpful.’

‘Oh,’ Edward said. ‘But—’

Hal’s smile twisted and he spoke quickly, too lightly. ‘Thomas says you have a puppy for Humphrey. A word of advice – don’t let him name it. He named his goat Alcestis and I fear his tastes have not improved.’

Hal was probably right. Alcestis was certainly a strange name for a goat. But Edward stepped forward, uncaring of what the poor pup ended up being called.

‘Did you want to see it?’ Edward asked.

Hal’s mouth opened, and then he shook his head with a sigh. ‘No. Thomas was not completely wrong. I do need rest.’

‘Oh, right. Of course,’ Edward said, hating himself for having asked. He should let Hal go and get the rest he needed so much. ‘Maybe later, then.’

‘Maybe,’ Hal said. ‘I’ll certainly see enough of it in the days to come. But I hope we will talk properly soon – I’ve missed you.’

Edward smiled without thought, and then tried to temper his hope and joy with memory. Whatever Hal said, Thomas had seen him true and he should not hope for things he did not deserve.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ he said, ‘but you are not well.’

‘I’d noticed,’ Hal said. ‘I’m normally better than this. The doctors say I should pick up soon, that I’m just recovering from the stress of travel.’

‘That’s – that’s good, isn’t it?’

Edward cursed himself silently. He had forgotten how to speak to Hal, heard the inadequacy of his own words and winced even as Hal nodded. He reached out and clasped Edward’s hands, the fingers dry and cool.

‘I was sorry to hear about Mathe,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Edward said. ‘It was very sad. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more – I wish I could’ve—’

‘I know,’ Hal said, and somehow it seemed as if he did.

*

Edward squared his shoulders as much as he could while holding a basket containing a squirming puppy, and stepped inside Humphrey’s room. Henry and Hal were both there, sitting on a long, padded bench with Humphrey between them. Hal looked, Edward thought, a little better than he had two days previously. There was some colour in his face that wasn’t from shadows and bruises. Henry made a gesture to acknowledge that Edward couldn’t exactly bow properly with the basket in his hands and excused him from this act of obeisance.

‘I wonder if you might give me a hand, Humphrey,’ Edward said. ‘And help me with this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Go and see, little idiot,’ Hal said fondly, and pushed Humphrey up.

‘Harry,’ Henry said, chiding, and then looked as if he might be sick.

Hal rolled his eyes and Henry said nothing more. Humphrey glanced between them, then went over to help Edward. They set the basket on the ground and Humphrey’s eyes widened as he saw the lid move. He looked uncertainly over at his father.

‘Humphrey,’ Henry said, clearing his throat. ‘What’s inside is for you. An early gift for the New Year celebrations.’

Humphrey knelt down. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, then cleared his throat and said it again more loudly. He lifted the lid and the puppy’s head poked up, paws scrambling for the edge of the basket. Humphrey reached in and picked the puppy up, held her to his chest. As Edward hoped, her head fell back against Humphrey’s neck and she began to lick the underside of his chin. Humphrey laughed and then, abruptly, his eyes filled with tears.

Edward looked from Humphrey to Henry and to Hal, wondering what it meant. Had they miscalculated, thought it would cheer him only to rub salt on the wound of Mathe’s loss? Henry looked as Edward felt, but Hal was unconcerned.

‘Thank you,’ Humphrey said, ‘thank you.’

He stood up without letting go of the puppy and hugged Edward tightly, before racing over to hug Henry just as fiercely. Then he turned to Hal.

‘Look, Harry, look,’ he said, thrusting the puppy towards his brother. Then he stopped. ‘Do you want – him?’

‘Her,’ Edward corrected quietly.

‘Did you want her?’

Hal laughed and reached out to pat the pup, rubbing her ears. ‘Of course not. She’s yours.’

‘We can share her,’ Humphrey said. ‘Until you get your dogs back.’

‘Alright,’ Hal said. ‘But she sleeps with you.’ He looked up at Edward and smiled. ‘Does she have a name, your grace?’

Edward glanced towards Humphrey, remembering Hal’s warning about Humphrey’s skill at naming things. But he was more interested in playing with the puppy than naming her.

‘She’s young enough not to know it, if you wish to change it,’ Edward said. ‘But it is Holdfast.’

*

Edward met Humphrey every day to help him with his puppy, to show him how to train her and cope with her moods. He was sure that there were others who would perform this task just as well, but Humphrey asked it of him and Edward was happy to give his assistance. Hal was there some days, but mostly absent – Edward understood why. Hal was still weak and the pup should bond most strongly with Humphrey.

Instead, Edward once again rarely saw Hal, rarely spoke to him. It was enough, or so he told himself, to have spoken to Hal alone just the once, just for a little while, and know that Hal had missed him.

But word came, two days before the Feast of the Epiphany, that Hal wanted to see him. A walk, he suggested, on the following morning. Edward wondered if Hal was strong enough for it, but he sent back his agreement at once.

‘You seem happier,’ Philippa said to him. ‘Perhaps Henry was wise to insist we come.’

‘We were always going to come,’ Edward said. ‘It’s just that things are better now.’

She came over and kissed his forehead. ‘Then enjoy it.’

*

Edward met Hal in the hall. It was empty save the few servants preparing for the feast, their conversation quiet echoes against the stone. Everyone else must have been watching the tournament, Edward could hear the distant sounds of cheering. Hal was leaning against a wall and smiled at Edward, pushing himself off it to meet Edward.

‘Are you sure you’re well enough for this?’ Edward asked. ‘We can sit somewhere quiet if you’d rather.’

‘Anything but that. I’ve been stuck inside too long. I can do this.’

Edward doubted it, but let Hal have his way. They stepped outside, into the gardens where the sound of the tournament grew even louder. Hal seemed paler under the sunlight, and he shuddered, turning from the direction of the tournament.

‘It makes me sick now,’ Hal said. ‘I can’t stand to watch.’

‘It will pass,’ Edward said.

But even so, he walked Hal away from it, heading deeper into the gardens where the sound became muffled and distant before vanishing entirely. Hal sighed, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky. Edward had been in these gardens many times before with Richard. He could see the various memories overlapping – the visits in spring, summer, autumn, winter, Richard’s moods ever-changing, but his company was always a constant.

‘Did we ever come here with you?’ he asked Hal.

Hal’s brows lifted. ‘What do you mean, _we_ – oh. No.’

Edward had not thought so, he did not remember Hal being there. Hal cleared his throat.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said. ‘For looking after Humphrey, when Mathe was – and now, helping with his puppy.’

‘I was glad to – and am still glad now. He’s a good boy.’ He bit his lip, watching Hal’s face. ‘Why do you wear the bandage? Is the wound still healing?’

‘No, it’s healed,’ Hal said. ‘Nothing but a scar. It’s ugly and Father – no one seems to cope well with seeing it.’

‘Show me,’ Edward said. ‘Please?’

Hal stopped walking, turning fully towards Edward. ‘Do you know what was done to me? How he _cured_ me?’

‘No,’ Edward said. ‘There was very little to – I feared so much for you, and there was so little to hear…’

‘The surgeon’s writing a treatise. You can read that.’

Edward could make no answer. He was not sure that he did want to know, much less read about the care meted out to Hal in the cold terms a surgeon would use. But if Hal wanted him to know, he would seek it out and read it.

Hal lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘I’ll have to read it myself to figure out what was done to me. All I know is that it hurt and I wished to God I would die.’

‘Oh Hal.’ Edward’s breath and heart were full of terror.

Hal’s smile was brittle. ‘But I did not get my wish, obviously.’

Edward rested his hand on Hal’s shoulder. He did not want to tell him what he could easily say. That Hal would recover, of course, that his life would be fine and unmarred, save the scar on his face. That he and so many others were grateful that Hal was still living. Hal watched him for a moment and then reached up, pulling the bandage from his face. He seemed to flinch, but made himself stand firm.

Hal was wrong, Edward thought, the scar was not ugly. It was horrific. The skin was red and rough, but what was worse was the way Hal’s cheek seemed to cave in, as if a ball of flesh had been removed beneath the skin of his cheek. Edward felt in turns that he would like to touch it, to test the depth of it, and then the desire to scrub the image of it from his mind. He wanted, moreover, to weep. But then he lifted his eyes and saw Hal’s, dark and familiar, with wariness in deep within them.

‘I did warn you,’ he said, and made as if to turn away and replace the bandage.

Edward reached out to halt him, then raised his hand to Hal’s cheek, let his fingers brush over the edges of the scar. Hal’s nostrils flared, his breath coming faster, almost to the point of a whine.

‘You can’t wear a bandage for the rest of your life,’ he said.

‘You should not tempt me,’ Hal said. But he did not try to pull away and did not replace the bandage. His breath settled.

‘It is ugly,’ Edward said. ‘And it upsets me to see it, but only because I – because I love you and you have been hurt most grievously.’

Hal rested his hand against Edward’s and squeezed it. He sighed. ‘I have been told, more than once, that I have been blessed indeed. I should be dead and yet I live and am not an imbecile yet. I can still see, still speak, still think – all thanks to God’s love and favour.’

‘And you believe it?’

‘No,’ Hal said. ‘I think was chastisement.’

 _Chastisement._ It was an odd word, one that sent shivers down Edward’s spine. He did not like it, did not want to consider what things Hal thought he needed to penance for. What Hal must think of the state of Edward’s own soul – of all sinners, he was the most wretched and guilty.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, ‘What could you have possibly done that needs chastising?’

Hal smiled, looking like he might cry or vomit. ‘He would have been thirty-seven tomorrow. Four years he was deprived of. Thus far. And he the true king.’

Edward stared, then said, ‘You didn’t do anything. I know that. We all know that. Not like Henry, not like me—’

‘Exactly,’ Hal said, ‘I didn’t do anything. I left him, and I obeyed my father. I could have spoken out, I should have _stayed_ with him.’

‘It wouldn’t have made a difference,’ Edward said. ‘And you – he would not have wanted you to be a martyr in his name.’

‘No,’ Hal said. ‘Nor would he have wanted that of you, Ned.’

He stepped forward and hugged Edward tightly, pressing his cheek against Edward’s shoulder. Edward held him, not sure whether Hal was seeking comfort for himself or whether he thought of himself as giving comfort to Edward. It did not matter. To have someone who wanted to be held by him – it was all what Edward wanted. Hal was not Richard, could never be Richard, and that was right. Edward did not want that. But Hal was something else, however corrupted he had been by anger and hurt. Hal was the son Edward could never have and would never claim, but first and foremost, he had been Richard’s. Both of them had understood Richard and loved and mourned him still. Hal understood Edward, spoke the language of secret grief akin to Edward’s own, and that – that was almost enough.

*

By the time they returned to their lodgings, Hal’s strength was beginning to fail. He allowed Edward to escort him to his room and tend to him as a nurse would, to peel off the outer layers of his clothes and ease him onto the bed. The room was dark, the windows shuttered and the air stuffy with heat and bitter herbs. Edward did not examine too closely the potions and ointments on the table near the bed, nor the bowl and knife that had obviously been used to bleed Hal.

Outside, the jousts were going on still, the sound of cheering and fighting muffled and distant. Hal’s head lolled to the side, hiding the wounded cheek. Edward pulled Hal’s boots off, and bent over to brush Hal’s hair back from his face. His eyes were drifting shut, but he reached out and grasped Edward’s hand.

‘I dreamed about him,’ he said. ‘Richard. When I was dying.’

It was too much. Edward laid his head down on the bed beside Hal’s hand and wept.

*

Daylight still filtered its way through the windows in Hal’s room. Hal was asleep, his fragile fingers twitching against the red of his bed covers. They were so pale and so thin that Edward wanted to weep again. He thought, I must get up. I must go. The day’s tournament would be over soon, with its end would begin the feast and the Duke of York would be missed.

But he was tired, worn out and like the first glimpse of frail sun after weeks of rain, or the very beginning of spring still trapped in winter’s frost, he understood there was something beyond this grief.

He saw his days unfolding. He would go to the feast. He would grieve Richard tomorrow and the days after. He would help Humphrey train his dog and watch Hal recover and grow strong again. The years would pass. Henry would die and Hal would become king and Edward would be his loyal subject.

But he could – he would, he did – remember and repent. Richard had been his lover, his husband, and all that anyone could be, and this he had disclaimed and forsaken. He knew it, had held this knowledge within him for years, and would carry it until his death. He had betrayed his heart, and yet, though it was bleeding, though it was broken, it was still steady.

**Author's Note:**

> Some historical notes:
> 
> Mathe disappears after his brief appearance in the chronicles to "abandon" Richard for Henry. It’s not clear what happened to him, who looked after him, or when (or if) he died. If it helps, we have absolutely no evidence he died and thus he could be immortal. 
> 
> The names Edward suggests (Holdfast, Clench, Brag, Ringwood, Nosewise) are all names from a list of 1,100 dog names that Edward made. Hal’s dogs and Humphrey’s puppy are my inventions, but Humphrey did indeed have a goat though I have no idea what her name was. 
> 
> Humphrey’s presence at the Battle of Shrewsbury is a little more tricky – Jean de Waurin lists the Duke of Gloucester as present, but the title was in abeyance and Humphrey only became Duke of Gloucester in 1414. If Humphrey was there, he would have only been 12 (turning 13 in October) and unlikely to have actually fought. There is no evidence that he went with Hal to Kenilworth or that he was a sickly child.
> 
> Both of Edward’s siblings were connected with plots against the crown, Constance of York in 1405 and Richard of Conisbrough in the Southampton Plot in 1415. Constance was the widow of Thomas Despenser, who was beheaded after the failed Epiphany Uprising in 1400. G. L. Harriss has speculated that Conisbrough was illegitimate as he was given no lands or income by his father or brother (nor is mentioned in either’s wills). Whether he was or wasn’t, I’ve incorporated it as something he suspects and angsts over.
> 
> There is an account that Henry knighted his younger sons in front of Richard the night before his coronation. I don’t know if it's likely or not, but when in doubt I always go for the option with maximum angst.
> 
> The line, “out of all the sinners, he was the most wretched and guilty” comes almost verbatim from Edward’s will. He died at Agincourt in 1415, one account stating he was felled in defence of Hal and Humphrey.


End file.
